


Gone are the Children

by SadDaffodils



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Sister, Childhood, Dutch Van der linde - Freeform, Dutch before he became an enormous bumhole, Family Dynamics, Father Hosea Matthews, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Growing Up, Hosea matthews - Freeform, Hosea's Daughter, John Marston - Freeform, John Marston Sister, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Relationship Development, Sibling Relationship, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde, Young Hosea Matthews, Young John Marston, arthur morgan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadDaffodils/pseuds/SadDaffodils
Summary: 1878's Winter brings the daughter of Hosea Matthews, a new father and drunken widower. Without a mother, and raised between a family on a constant run from bullets and bars, Bella-May lives a life not many have. Since she could first walk, there were rules and there was danger.The story of a young girl growing up in a misfit family of rowdy boys, devout parents, and far too many fights.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan & Sister, Dutch van der Linde & Original Female Character(s), Hosea Matthews & Daughter, Hosea Matthews & Original Female Character(s), John Marston & Original Female Character(s), john marston & sister
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think I'm gonna keep this book's chapters short and sweet, it fits better I suppose.
> 
> Very happy to share this, I love those boys like brothers :)

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**PART ONE, 1882**

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The night that Bessie was buried, under a wooden cross and crumpled leaves, Hosea Matthews became a father. Her labour groaned on for half the night, as she sweat from every pore and burnt on every limb. She pushed all she could, but only got to hold her daughter for a minute before death stole her. Her newborn was endlessly distraught by the time they were escorted home, in the back of a rattling cart. Hosea was at a loss — sour and hopeless, but now with a wailing pink infant and a great deal of responsibility in his arms. Her eyes were the same blue as her mother's, framed by the same plush lashes. Her nose had the same button ending. Her pudgy fingers searched for the warmth of her farther. It was a perfect copy of Bessie. But for a man who had watched the same face wither, it was awful in almost every way.

Hosea didn’t have it in himself to look at his daughter’s eyes that night. Not even out of pity for a half orphaned infant could he bring himself to try. Every day, he missed his wife more than the last. He exhausted himself with mourning, and in an effort to forget life's troubles, filled his belly with liquor each hour. More corpse than man, Hosea lost himself in the next few months.

All that time, his daughter was in the care of Dutch Van der Linde. Instead of a woman’s touch, she got the rough skinned hands of Dutch, who bopped her to sleep each night when she would cry for the skin of her own mother. But not all was bad. Bella-May was a baby surrounded by people who treated her dear and darling, always with someone singing or there to make her smile.

Annabelle often paced around with the baby on her warm hip, and Susan would be there every evening to feed her clumps of boiled potato. And as much as it were impossible to fill such shoes, Annabelle served as a substitute mother. She felt it was disrespectful at first, taking over a mother's job even if that mother was two months gone. But with some gentle practice, she did Bessie justice. Arthur did his bit to help out as well, at the awkward age of fifteen when he was all fingers and thumbs. He was urged on by Anna's careful hands, as a baby snoozing in her shawl was rocked in his arms. He felt too frightening to hold such a soft creature, but a week passed and he was soon sitting with her every morning at dawn, on a stump by the lake like he'd been doing it all his life. He'd ended up with lullabies stuck in his head.

Weeks clumped slowly into months, and months into years, until four years had gone by and Bella-Mae was no longer that pink little newborn Hosea had been handed. Her hair grew longer and darker; smile sweeter and brighter. She fitted into her first pair of shoes, spoke her first word, wobbled her first steps, scribbled her first drawing and buttoned up her first dress in those first four years. They'd rushed before Hosea's eyes, while he let himself be left behind, and he had missed them _all_.

It's still a regret swimming around his shoulders all day, even now. Perhaps he should have just looked at her that night, or tried to tuck her in the next.

But he never could.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

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**PART TWO, 1882**

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It's early dawn, grey in the skies, and little Bella-May is exceptionally tired. Her night gown stains a shade darker in the dirt, as she slumps yawning against a log with lazy fingers to pluck the bark off. A tubby beetle meanders by her face, and the puppy besides the girl lays as equally tired, tail thumping into the ground.

A dying fire spits at them in its ring of twigs and coal, doing good to warm their feet. It's always so very cold in the mornings, on New Hanover's chilly cliffs. They'd been here a short year, and the one thing that has never left is these pesky, cold mornings.

Just as the beetle's plump backside rounds the log and out of sights, a shadow grows over her and the puppy. It sighs just as she looks up. "Child, what are you doing in the dirt like a sad little dog? Get outta there this minute."

She's wrenched to her feet by the forearm, dust clouding from her filthy gown that once could be called white. Miss Grimshaw's hands smack away the mess in impatient swats, "Damn circus this place is."

Trying to keep on two feet, Bella offers, "I'm sorry Miss Grimshaw."

"Well sorry ain't making you _clean_ , is it?" Bella-May gives up her peacemaking, for this never worked for a nasty creature such as Miss Susan Grimshaw. One small mistake and she looked as if she would surely have you shunned from here to Saint Denis. And with the disappointment she works up, she may just have the power to do it. Tutting, the woman brings her to a table with her skirts hiked up in a fist, legs striding in her storming walk she does when she's cross.

Bella's dress is torn from her body and ripped over her head, blonde hair floating back onto her neck as the clothing is thrown into a barrel of suds. It's already gagging with what may as well be John's whole wardrobe. A ribbon of silky blue is whipped out of a box and weaved into the child's braids, and a second later she's being smeared in the face by a wet cloth, water up her nostrils like she's a dusty tea pot being cleaned.

"I outta march right into town and get a trough for you two to eat outta. The amount of filth you manage to wear is beyond me."

And with a pinch on the ear, Bella-May is discharged from the woman's aggressive cleaning station, frazzled and pouty as the old woman wipes down the table. Every time she gets cleaned, a beard of pinkish skin would bloom around her jaw, after eating sticky pear juice or slimy jam.

She sure does like things spick and span, that sour old Susan Grimshaw.


	3. Chapter 3

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**PART THREE, 1882**

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Little Bella May is wise enough to not approach Susan again, and instead takes herself over to Arthur's sealed and off-limits tent as he snoozes inside. The patch of dirt behind it is where she amuses herself, stamping the slate with her hand prints and making a small house of sticks and crinkly leaves for any frogs that might come this way. The sheet of Arthur's tent is virtually quivering from all the ZZZ's coming from his mouth.

As the four year old girl is adjusting her flimsy twig house, listening to her brother mumble through his dreams and poking at the very beginings of snow coming from the sky, she hears water sloshing behind her head and realises it's John come to rinse his sleepy, mucky face in a bucket. Most probably by order, for he never does it himself.

Bella May doesn't greet the little boy, and just continues on her construction, as he rubs the icy water into his red cheeks and coughs at some in his nose. From across the camp, at a newly polished chair, Miss Susan caws, "Empty it for the horses when you've finished, John!"

For himself, he grumbles, "Yes, sir."

John lugs the bucket through the horses, and dumps all of it in a trough right in time to save his skinny little legs from snapping. The metal bucket claps as he drops it in the dirt, and John mashes his kunckles up his nose to wipe away the snot and water, "We're going into town after lunch by the way," He sniffs, "Dutch says."

The girl hops down from the rock she's scaled, certain there are no frogs in need of housing there. "Town?"

He slumps down in the dirt. He's plucked a very important foundation twig from Bella's house, stabbing the dirt with it as Copper's nose rounds the corner. "For travel stuff that Hosea needs."

"Oh froggy-froggy, hello!" Her new aquaintance is far more interesting than smelly old Valentine. She has the most careful of hands to pat his flat little head, "Hello, my friend."

"I hope we get candies." John swirls the stick around. "And _he's_ not your friend, he only has _frog_ friends."

"Well.. He can have a person friend." Bella-May supposes.

"Maybe Miss Grimshaw can be his 'person friend' when you put him in her canteen." John grins a cheeky grin, more holes than teeth.

The little girl has never done such a thing, but her precious little giggle suggests she's keen.


	4. Chapter 4

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**PART FOUR, 1882**

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John had gotten bored enough to help finish the little twig house, and while he did not care whether it got one dining chair or two, it had still been an alright enough way to spend the morning. Grumpy masses of clouds and the expected snow fall due for the afternoon led Miss Grimshaw to come by with coats for each child, less interested in Bella-May's tour of their hard work and more interested in the securing of their coat buttons. She slapped John's scalp for not putting the bucket away, claimed the puppy was in need for a wash, and stormed off to slice bread rolls for breakfast. John would surely die if he could never slip a frog into that woman's bed.

The children talked for a bit, petting little Copper and fiddling with grass blades as early snow begun to dot the dirt. They were bored, and had nothing better to do when it was so early.

Breakfast is warm, hot, thick and even more delicous on your insides when your outsides are nearly ice. On the cloth, they have bowls of steamy oats and rags of raisins and pear slices to pour in if they please. A basket of bread rolls sits buttery in the middle for anyone to pinch. A creamy, scorching feast served up by sweet Miss Annabelle. There's milk to drink, fruit-studded muffins and a team of coffee mugs for the adults.

  
Including Arthur, who while isn't quite an adult at the age of nineteen, appears from his tent to down the whole thing and half of Hosea's.

"There you are, son." Dutch slaps the boy's shoulder blade in some pompous greeting.

Hosea laughs. "A little sleeping beauty, aren't you, Arthur?" Her dad swirls bread through his bowl, amused with himself.

Arthur's hair sticks up in about every direction that man could name, eyeing back just the same, "Yeah and I got my nosey little vassal to match."

In their corner of the table and their edge of the seat, John and Bella are fighting over the bread that he stole from her.

"Whole kingdom, I have no doubt," Dutch rumbles. Bella-May wins back her roll. "Now, _thank you_ , Miss Annabelle for this delicous feast, hmm?"

She bites it and follows the non-negotiable prompt, speaking to Anna and her beautiful red hair. "Thank you, Miss Annebelle."

"Thanks." Is John's offer.

The whole table clinks and slurps, snow now wafting in from the North as they enjoy. Lovely Miss Anne knows that a thank you is never needed, for it has always been there anyhow, when she'd tuck them in or read them stories. Going along in their secret exchange, she assures,

"You're most welcome, my loves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want to be a five year old in 1882 with two brothers and a bedtime of 7pm
> 
> i hope you've enjoyed this book so far 🍓x be well. 🙌


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> right now, the gang's only dutch and hosea, grimshaw and annabelle, and the kids. and copper.
> 
> i've done my calculations and john would be nine at this time 🧐 bella'd be four, arthur'd be nineteen.

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**PART FIVE, 1882**

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The cabin's door clamps shut, banishing the late night's heavy snowfall outside. Arthur pats the ice from his gloves and sighs hot air into them.

Hosea and Morgan are for the first time in a year quite especially glad for their work. The whole place, made of planks and nails and sturdy brown beams, had been built by the pair of them when they'd first arrived. The few tents that flap around outside are for those whose beds could not fit into the cabin, or those who prefered breathing fresh air and not the tingling of dusty wood.

But right now, with snow whistling away outside, this cabin is most perfect. On the ornate, red carpet that looks as old as fossils, John lay on his back with the fire's light flickering all over him. He looks on the verge of sleep, and also like he's dead.

"That's that." Arthur grunts, weight sqeaking on a couch.

John pumps his fist up and down to sleepily punch Arthur's boot, and Hosea sighs from the wall, "First thing tomorrow we're gonna have to salvage whatever's left of the tents; set them all up again. Can't imagine it'll be much. Half of them'll probably be down in that river,"

"Reckon we'll have to buy some more," Arthur puts in, unlacing a boot.

"That's just 'cause you don't wanna do any work, Arthur." John mumbles.

To herself, much too obviously, Miss Susan says, "Like we can afford that anyhow."

But everyone heard. Dutch, for a moment, looks supremely uncomfortable.

"It is _fine_ , Susan," He recovers, face tight in the intent to shut Miss Grimshaw up before she reveals any further. In a chair, he mindlessly pats Bella-May's back in his lap. She's picking bits of fluff out of his coat's fur and yawning. "We have got plenty of money for plenty of things, my dear old crow — now is not the time to be getting _delirious_." The child he's forgotten about looks up as he leans forward, daring Grimshaw to keep on the subject.

Sometimes Dutch could be really scary. Especially if you're in trouble.

"Delirious?" Arthur disbelieves, "What in the hell are you talking about? Where'd all that Strawberry money get off to?"

Dutch licks his teeth lest he lose his temper. " _Nowhere_. It has gone nowhere. Now... my family of pathetic shut ins? _Go_ and get some godamned sleep in you before your noses get any browner."

"Yes," Miss Annabelle quietly urges, eager to not alarm the children, "Come now, we'll read Little Mouse Gone Yonder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> john is so cute. (😭)
> 
> also, there was a comment on here but it was on a chapter i impulsively deleted, so now it's gone. I'm sorry, it was nice!


	6. Chapter 6

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**PART SIX, 1882**

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Little Mouse Gone Yonder is a tiny book of grainy pages, all crinkled up exactly how a person would age. The front cover is yellow with a mouse peeking from underneath a thimble printed on it, and the title is long, long worn off. Miss Annabelle crawls into bed with both children, barefoot and angelic as she reads to them. She gives the rat character a silly, mean voice.

One kiss for Bella-May, one kiss for John, and she leaves them alone in their quilt to stare at the pitch black ceiling. All the adults, minus Arthur, are still talking in the other room, connected by a big door. Arthur is dead asleep on the couch on the other side of the bedroom. The adult's fireplace's light only just comes through the bottom of the door, lighting up the floorboards.

Bella-May fiddles with the quilt's patchwork binding, a flower or teapot on each square. She hopes their frog and his house are doing well. She will search for him in the morning.

With this room's fireplace being watered down into steaming black wood, it is very hard to see anything. John's tangled hair tickles her cheek as she mouths at the ear of her stuffed animal, wiggling her toes in the silence with Copper a warm mound at both their feet. She had thought John was sleeping, until he grunted and rolled to face her.

He thinks for a moment, until he wonders, "Why do you think Dutch was so mad at Arthur?"

Bella ponders. She lets go of the teddy's ear, mouth fluffy, "For asking to buy tents?" She whispers.

"Yeah." Copper whines and stretches, pink tummy bulged. Both of them are trying very hard to be quiet. "He said like... He got so mad. It was strange, don't you reckon?"

"Mhmm." Bella mumbles. "But he was nice when he — when he kissed us night."

"You don't think something happened in town?"

"Maybe." His sister whispers.

"Maybe." John shuffles to go back to staring at the ceiling. Adult problems are not only confusing, but also very appropriately named for they were not the worry of children. They lay there for a bit, breathing in and out and falling sleepier. It feels like they have so much more to say, and also nothing at all, but the boy only mumbly wishes, "Night, May."

She whines to get her tired mouth to work. "Goodnight."

And they fall asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

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**PART SEVEN, 1882**

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Bella-May wakes up when it is cold, quiet and barely lit outside the window. The quilt is screwed up to her right, sheets cold where John has already gotten up for today, unspurprisingly at the most unreasonable of hours. Most will still be sleeping.

In the silence, May passes the open door with a stuffed dog pressed into her sternum. Voices discreet and mumbly are coming from the small wooden kitchen, and as her toes go cold on the tiny white tiles, she finds Annabelle, Dutch and her father in the kitchen. The woman is spreading clumpy red jam onto scone halves and pressing strawberries atop each one. 

For a few moments, most unusually, they don't notice her.

All of them are in post-argument silence, so quiet and remarkably odd that she's about to go back to her and John's matress. This is until, by slim chance, her father looks up from his coffee. "Ah, my dear little May, good morning."

Dutch second, Annabelle third. She gasps in poorly placed delight, towling off clumps of jam on her hands, as she bends down to open her arms, "Good morning, there."

She hugs the little girl, squeezing tight and spreading her apron's flour everywhere for a second long and warm. Hosea and the woman begin to wake from whatever silence they were in, now smiling and greeting, whereas Dutch remains in his cage of plotting silence, staring through his newspaper and far beneath the table. She's offered a plate of crumbly scones, which she gobbles down at the table with jam all over her cheeks. They can hear John and Arthur messing around out in the snow, but for now, her green plate of scones are too warm to be left. Annabelle always was good at baking.

She offers a plate to Dutch. He shoos her away. Behind the back door, John squeals again and she quickly hands her empty plate over to go and play.

As Annabelle tucks her into a coat, Dutch starts to disagree quielty with Hosea, over the woman's warm shoulder as she fastens a bundle of laces.

Bella would never have inquired about this to Anna, for she knew that the adults were always right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's so late and i need to be up so early tomorrow. yuck. 😔


	8. Chapter 8

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**PART EIGHT, 1882**

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The two boys are out in the cold, wrapped up in coats and scarves as they clean up scattered supplies. John is grumbling around in Arthur's shadow, pushing hard like a moron to get a wheelbarrow through the snow. Into it goes old boots, metal cups, spoons, bowls, the doormat, and a long list more that got thrown around in the storm. The wind has since disappeared, and John continues moaning and groaning like it's his signature sound.

On the creaky veranda, chipped and dry, Bella-May is allowed out to play. She collects the puppy from his bed by the door, and cradles him into her chest. He's small and warm and the size of her whole middle.

"Arthur, stop, you're not funny!"

"Come on now, Marston, this ain't yours?" Arthur is only laughing, while John is scarcely sane. The small pink boot Arthur's pulled out the snow is definetely not John's.

The little girl smiles. Copper's sniffly, black olive nose nudges into her cheeck, and she hops down the steps to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not to be one of those writers that leave links to pictures because they can't describe it themselves, but i thought i would leave this one here. it's pretty much... exactly how i see him. i thought it'd be interesting.
> 
> https://i.redd.it/uzqfuxhhor141.jpg
> 
> and the cherry on top is that i can't figure out how to properly link it.
> 
> i feel cheap for doing this... but hey. look how handsome he is!
> 
> 🍓
> 
> also, please leave a comment behind before you leave. I'd love love love to hear from you! x


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for being here!

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**PART NINE, 1882**

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With the lunacy of a small marching band, spoons and forks and blue rusted bowls are being polished with cloth and organised in chaos all over the outside table. The three have covered its entirety with their hour's worth of finds, and there's barely a spot of old wood left to see.

The little girl leans as far as she can with the puppy in her lap, old boots tucked under her backside, to pluck a wonky spoon mottled in snow from the heap of hundreds more. With it, she pokes Arthur's hip while he debates with John.

His beastly sized gloves toss one more fork into a sorting tray across the table. "You? A pick pocket? Ain't heard nothing like it." He takes her spoon in rountine.

The boy rolls his eyes. "Well, if I were homeless, what else could I do?"

He flings another spoon into a clinking pile. "You cannot even get your eyes pointing in the same direction if it won you four million dollars. So, whatever it is, it won't be pick pocketing."

"It's not even that difficult, _Arthur_. I could do it," John argues. "What would _you_ do, then, anyway? And no bounty hunting."

"No bounty hunting? I don't know," He explains, mushing his rag covered thumb into the curve of a spoon, "Sell my... drawings or something." 

John looks up from his snow crusted lamp. "You _wouldn't_!" First time the boy's laughed all morning — and it's loud. "You'd rob some poor old woman and sleep in jail until you're eighty!"

Arthur is discreetly convinced and he shakes his head. "Yeah well, drawings or not, I was never going through God's white gates anyhow. Besides," He dismisses, "That would require getting caught. And at least I'd have a penny."

John frowns. _Thwack_ goes his grey cloth when he chucks it at Arthur.


	10. Chapter 10

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**PART TEN, 1882**

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The whole bedroom and its every nook and cranny is darkened from the pulled curtain, and every moment comes a small squeak from the fan's blades. Afternoon naps are forever lonely and uninteresting, and Bella May is the only one ever made to take them. Her face is slumped into a stale pillow, flat and smelly with her youngest brother's sweat.

Copper's ear flicks against her ankle. He is much like a teddy bear that blinks and breathes.

Perhaps if her father were in this sleepy room, he could read her a story — but those are only for night time. This is another reason for nap time to be disliked. Another is how John often visits her windowsill, giggling and explaining to her just how much fun he's having out there.

John had stopped needing nap time when he was born but had stopped being made to take it when he reached five years, and has felt very proud to graduate into what the adults do ever since. This gives him a lot to boast about, and her a lot more motivation to ban him from playing with her boxes of puzzles and pencils. Of course most unfairly, she would always be scolded into sharing with him, unless it were Hosea who would walk by with a wink.

Somewhere in the house, a tap tweaks on and May sits up in the crinkly sheets peek at the puppy. She spots him snoozing.

Caution had burgeoned right behind Miss Annabelle's tongue when she had told the children that they needn't put the cutlery back into the cabinets. Instead she urged them onto the table in their messy trays, all packed up, with a smile that sought to reassure. 

There were lots of boxes on the table. The plates were gone, a shelf empty, and Dutch had begun climbing the attic's ladder since they returned to the house. Nobody goes up there, and by the odd thump here or there, he seems to be moving things down into the living room. The tap squeaks off.

She exhales a whine, and so does the puppy. He looks to the roof at another scrape.

Two hours of dull napping is ahead.


	11. Chapter 11

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**PART ELEVEN, 1882**

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To the click of the golden door knob she wakes from light sleep two hours later, provoking her upright with knuckles rubbing eyes. Miss Anna's cotton daisy print skirts are swinging beneath her apron of white, still splattered in flour and grains, as she waits for the child to come to the door way. The fan continues its swinging, and May's legs shuffle the quilt into a lump at the bed's rear. She fetches her stuffed hen from where it took a fall to the floor, and complies with sleepy eyes.

Holding Miss Anna's hand, she expects a silent house and a glass of milk for her in the kitchen, as it always were. She would drink it and disappear to do a puzzle or read.

But the ladder is protruding from the attic hatch, with scrappy card boxes at its foot that are filled with never before seen trinkets and clothes. The front door closes behind Arthur, who steps out without a word and an armful of boxes. The couch has on it more satchels than cushions, the cabinets are open and empty, the rug is rolled up against the wall, and their trays of cutlery are still on the table, next to blankets tied up with rope.

She squeezes her hen, whispering, "Where is everybody?"

"They're just outside, sweetheart, alright?" She's being ushered into the kitchen, and when her eyes finally catch up from worrying the living room, she's confronted with the barest kitchen in the country. Their line of boots aren't even by the door. "Come get your milk, May, and then I can help you gather up your things. After we'll help Susan with the folding chairs outside, hmm?"

Frightfully quiet, she asks, "Why?"

Anna finally looks at the little girl, and doing exactly what she worked to hide, grows nervous.

"Your Uncle Dutch, sweetheart, he—" The woman bends down carefully, swiping the little girl's blonde hair back and grasping her upper arms. She exhales, smiling rather wide for someone who had been so nervous a moment before. Her eyes shine regretful. "We're all going on a trip for a long while, okay? It's important that we're quick about it, so—" Again she pauses, to scrutinize the tiles before looking up once more. "So drink up, now." 

A handful moments more, and they only observe each other's faces, until the woman snaps and goes off to look busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wish i could fit more stupid chapters about the kids doing stupid things, but right now it wont fit ( bleh ) the misery will end, i swear!


	12. Chapter 12

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**PART TWELVE, 1882**

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She is unsure, in almost every thought she has — meandering somewhere far from decidedness. She is unsure of herself, what to do with herself, and she's wandering around on the creaky deck planks, in the navy crochet cardigan with the big wooden buttons, looking completely useless. She holds her dopey stuffed hen by the wing, as if she'd forgotten it was there all together. He might slip and hit the wood.

She watches Miss Anne by the wagon, folding up sheets and shoving them in whatever space is left.

She kicks her boot at the deck below her slightly, moping and completely, completely unsure.

"They tell you where we're going?"

Now, what an awful fright that gives her. She frowns at the voice's face, who peeks through the thin railing with a flat cap atop untidy, black hair.

She shakes her head, "No."

John's face doesn't change, as if he'd expected as much. He waits a moment, and tells her, "They just told me North."

North has snow. She likes snow. "North like Amberino?" She asks.

Grown people sure don't fancy sharing many things with children, and she wonders why that is. There's always secret things that they needn't know, secret signals and secret secrets that apparently don't ever need to reach the ears of a child — but in a general way, this is alright — for always do they have wiser heads figuring out the problems for them.

"North like anywhere." John looks down at the scratched planks, in somehow both grief and total carelessness.

"Oh."

John remains quiet.

She pouts, unsure but pondering. Snow. She likes snow. Perhaps they'll see a bear.


	13. Chapter 13

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**PART THIRTEEN, 1882**

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In the snowy wind, filled with a feeling of soon-coming change, the horses are saddled up with old leather and hooks and dusty black padding, and even they know that it's time to move. They are leaving everything behind. Willingly or not, Bella May doesn't really know.

Dutch and Arthur, out in the dark and snow, are buckling bags closed and urgently replacing horse shoes.

Almost like the horses who are gearing up for a journey, Hosea tucks his daughter into a Winter coat, directly next to Arthur. The buttons are clasped, he pulls up her gloves, and John tugs on his boot's laces while night fall decends. The sky is darkening to a Wintery black, storming and snowing around useless oil lamps but still, as if there is no other option, the adults struggle on.

"Your food?" Hosea inquires, as the wind tries to mute him.

The child digs into her pocket and shows him a handful of beef jerky, raisins and wrapped candies.

He nods, fiercely sorting through ten thousand different thoughts that Bella May can't comprehend. He's just kneeling there, looking deeply concentrated. John begins his other boot. Hosea continues, "Your water, your book?"

His daughter nods twice, and he then seems pleased with her answer and nods many more times.

He takes a fur blanket and uses it to scoop her up swiftly, loosely covered as she's placed against his lower ribs, held in. He knows perfectly well that she's able to walk. But he wants his child in his arms.

The wind advances, a great big sudden attack, and the horses whinny and whine.

John gets his boot on, and she knows this is it.

Hosea takes a lamp.

It really is time to go.


	14. Chapter 14

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**PART FOURTEEN, 1882**

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The wagon jumbles through packed snow, horses whinnying in the frightening winds.

"Aren't you gonna eat, May?" John accuses, behind his scruffy scarves. Gusting wind whistles past his wild hair.

In the rear of the wooden wagon, John and May sit, two guideless children under freezing fur blankets. Their shoulders and knees bump together, gradually coated in snowflakes, surrounded on all sides by crates and bags that tuck them closely together with body heat. May can hear folded chairs clattering against one another. John besides her huffs, picking at his dry scone that he's attempting to eat, irritated with a temper that comes from severe anxiety. May sniffs her pinkish nose, wind soaring now, and clutches Cain closer. She's trying her hardest to keep him from freezing.

Neither child had looked to see the cabin vanish in the night, betrayed and abandoned at the end of the path they left on. It was shrouded with white, snowy leaves, fading and fading until it no longer was. They didn't even realise it had disappeared until she peeped back and felt her gut drop.

"Grimshaw's gonna find out." He warns, though it isn't true.

Snow dots their wool hats, and May smoothes her mittens over the puppy's back anxiously, wishing they had watched their home go.

"Then you'll be in real trouble, May."

The further they go, the more intensely she thinks. It's been one hour. 

She presses the dog into her tummy, and just above their heads on the wagon's wooden deck, Hosea sneezes into a hankerchief. He and Dutch are up there mumbling, but about what May hasn't been able to place. She can't place anything. She realises this subtly, a private burden of her own cluelessness, and she finally whines, "I don't wan' eat, John."

Marston plucks off a chunk and chews it. The boy claims, over the storm, "That makes you stupid."

"I'm not stupid." She tells him, quiet and queasy. She just wants to see the house. "Not hungry neither."

"You have to be hungry." He jabs. "You're a moron."

No one can hear them over the sounds of Winter winds. This time, his name calling is different — it hurts a little more — and she's really, truly starting to long for a glance of their cabin again. She feels as though they should have bid it a good bye. Like it was an event they had foolishly missed once and for all. Now that she stares directly at the face of this trip, she doesn't much like it. Just once more, she needs to see their cabin.

"You don't even know it, though, _because_ you're a moron."

A strange feeling sinks through her, cuddling the puppy even closer. She wants her brother to shut up.

"Where's your scone?" The boy continues.

Deep within her, she knows this feeling is odd. Her intuition is vague, far and foreboding, a sense of knowing in her empty tummy that is still small enough to doubt, because of her deep trust in her father and miss Anne's words. Finally, the girl uncomfortably mumbles to her frowny brother, "I don't have my scone, _moron_."

His black hair batters around. He still won't look at her. He scolds, "Why not?"

"I don' know." The girl stalls, knowing now that her actions may have been much more significant than they both once thought. Reluctantly, knowingly, she admits, "I left it behind."

Because she thought they'd be going back.

"For our frog." She continues, convincing herself she's still sure about it. "He needs food too. I didn't want him to die before we see him again."

A train howls by in the very distance.

The young boy observes her face for a minute, figuring out things inside his troubled head. She only looks at the sleet speckled blanket over their laps, pulling at the threads, shuffling her numb nose into Cain's fur, and feeling some sort of loss. Her brother returns focus to his scone, rolls his eyes, dusts off a crumb, and silently holds it out to her.

Finally out of fight, he complains quietly, "Don't be so dumb, skinny May."

She eats it in small nibbles and falls asleep on his arm.


End file.
